


The Secret Recipe

by laraF



Series: Stories from Lydia's Happy Haberdashery [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU with canon elements, BAMF Jennifer, BAMF Stiles, Black Humor, Community: fullmoon_ficlet, Crack-ish, F/M, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Tags May Change, Warlock!Stiles, Witch!Lydia, and i think she's severely underappreciated, awesome!kira, because i love her character, crazy action scenes, excessive mentions of fantastic baked goods and alcoholic beverages, fight scenes with only mild violence, fluff on fluffy fluffiness, magical creatures - freeform, mild language alert, nothing overly detailed, with sad tidbits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:28:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7407574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laraF/pseuds/laraF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beacon Hills is the capital of a flourishing magical kingdom under the rule of King Gerard and his family. Lydia has an inn to kill her pent up aggression with something productive and keeps up an obsessive spying competition with her neighbour, Jennifer Blake. Stiles is a powerful warlock in training. Trouble finds them, when Peter Hale avenges his family’s death by killing Princess Kate. They somehow end up in the middle of a political revolution with an unlikely ally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret Recipe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Full Moon Ficlet. Prompt: Fairytales and that is AWESOME so this grew out to be a monster. Currently I'm playing with three other story-ideas in my head but we'll see, I suppose.
> 
> This is a big first for me - in this Fandom and in English too. What my life has become...
> 
> Unbetaed - every mistake is mine. Be my guest, point them out. I'll probably laugh my arse off and then I'll correct them.
> 
> I own nothing. Regretfully. Otherwise Stiles and Peter would be inseparable and madly in love :)

Stories from Lydia's Happy Haberdashery

 

1st scene: The Secret Recipe

 

INTRO

 

When Stiles entered Lydia's Happy Haberdashery the usual sight greeted him. The inn was a huge three story granite building; the tallest, tidiest and most sought after among the many taverns, pubs and alehouses of Beacon Hills. Stiles himself helped with the ornate carvings which decorated and protected the massive walls and the wide white oak beams and pillars. The cleverly hidden runes and symbols were embedded everywhere as jade and ruby figurines of wolves, fairies, dragons, gnomes, mermaids, vampires; myriad and more supernatural creatures that roamed the Earth. Some of them meant to detect weapons as well as strong magical auras; others subtly revealed dark magic to the owner or not so subtly pointed out thieves. All in all, Stiles was very proud of his work.

  
The floor level consisted of a large common area with tables, benches and puffy armchairs. Magical fire crackled away happily in the chandeliers, torches and fireplaces, lighting up the inn with all the colours of the rainbow. Stiles added incantations to them so they didn't exude heat at all. The population of Beacon Hills – at least the humans and the furry ones without the ability to shapeshift – boiled and cooked most of the time; the temperature never went under seventy-seven degrees*. Instead the flames played out famous scenes from battles or widely known fables about love, deceit, death, honour and glory.

  
Behind the polished redwood counter heavy iron doors lined with tinsel wedged themselves between the full-to-the-brim shelves. They led to Lydia's office, the kitchen, a restroom for the staff and a fake storage room with a trap door to the basement. Lydia refused to keep her precious recipes and ingredients in an obvious place where spies could easily get their grabby hands on them. Hypocrisy at its best if someone asked him. It was that exact reason why he was here in the first place. Lydia had an eerily similar mission for him. From her office opened a comfortable but disconcertingly white little room. Only insiders knew about Lorraine, Lydia's seer grandmother. In exchange of a hefty sum of gold she peeked into the lucky chosen’s future, present and past.

  
Next to the bar were the stairs to the first, second and third floors where the guests could lay down in clean, comfortable rooms shaped after their peculiar tastes and requests. Again, thanks to Stiles's awesomeness. Really, the whole business was his idea. Lydia was on the verge of killing Jackson Whittemore's unfaithful scaly ass a couple years back. Before anything particularly violent could take place – ridding the king's right hand man's son from his beloved testicles was high on the list of possibilities, they even made a bet about it with Erica – Stiles regretfully intervened for the sake everyone's continued well-being. He gave Lydia a good purpose to work off her aggressive energies and secretly planted an itching hex on Jackson's lube stock. After all, he totally understood Lydia. There's possibly nothing worse for a girl then a man who leaves her behind following a sudden realization about his magnificent gayness. Yuck. Stiles thanked all the deities above that he soon found out about his preference toward men and only admired Lydia's beauty from a strictly platonic view.

  
Somehow an unspoken structure started to form in the common area only a couple months after opening. The loud, obnoxious, overly happy, irritating and occasionally randy usually congregated in the middle. They surrounded themselves with huge pitchers of beer, the cheapest jars of wine and a large bowl full of a variation of Mama Stilinski's divine stew alongside piles of freshly baked cornbreads. They were always a mixed group; merchants, young travellers, gamblers, insipid bandits, blusterous scoundrels, ambitious stable boys and reckless country boys trying their luck in the capital with high and pathetically unreal hopes of getting a job in the Palace. The really shady, mysterious, secretive, quiet, reclusive and exceptionally dangerous chose single tables and dark corners; seemingly inconspicuous places. The latter crowd typically included warlocks, witches, creatures with all kinds of – serious but generally dirty – businesses, covert lovers, mercenaries, potioneers, druids, ambassadors and emissaries and so on. They all knew better than committing something monumental though; killing, for example and... Yeah, pretty much killing. Maiming was alright, until no one from the staff got hurt. Lydia wasn't worried about her friends safety – if they couldn't protect themselves, there's no place for them in the Happy Haberdashery. Smuggling always benefited them with rare supplies and for providing a place for questionable meetings – the package contained a confidentiality oath – Lydia levied absolutely horrendous prices.

  
Now, winding his way through a group of angrily shouting traders and checking the wards he noticed a sickly looking woman shuddering in one corner who he's never seen before. In another corner a bunch of goblins rounded a short table. They drank a weird fermented concoction from potato, mulberry and beetroot; the liquid painted grotesque purple smiles above their impressive beards. A very fat, brown skinned man leaned casually against a beam. His black eyes studiously scanned the premises. He only wore sand-coloured trousers. The chandeliers' light reflected back from his bald, round head. Erica, Boyd and Isaac sat at the table they declared theirs, surrounded in a wide circle by unsuspecting admirers. Stiles scoffed. If they're so stupid, they deserve falling prey to the succubus or incubus. Or both. Really...

  
He finally reached the bar, where a cloaked figure asked Meredith with a raspy voice for fresh livers. While the maid paled and stuttered Stiles patted the man's shoulder and pointed to a flashy red board. There, with big white letters was an implied threat: WE DON'T SERVE HUMAN FLESH, BLOOD, ORGANS, BONES, OR ANY OTHER PARTS. GET THE HELL OUT!

  
“Dude, if I were you, I'd listen to sound advice.”

  
The man turned to him with a scornful expression. Stiles flashed his indigo eyes; an indication to his outstandingly powerful warlock side. The wendigo's shoulders immediately hunched in face of a much stronger enemy and he sulkily exited the inn. Liam – who came from the kitchen balancing three trays of mini apple-pumpkin pies – stopped growling. He lifted his puppy eyes to Stiles and dutifully said:

  
“Boss is in her office.” Then added whispering: “She's thunderous.” Stiles copied the boy's tell-tale gulp. An angry Lydia was dangerous to herself and those closest to her. A thunderous one was a catastrophe worth the attention of the Royal Army.

  
“Thanks, Liam. Oh, there are three dragon keepers in one corner who drank way too much poppy-spirit. I think they're starting a riot,” shouted Stiles as the aforementioned men's inarticulate hollers caused half the pub to become temporarily deaf. Liam carefully placed the pies on the counter before he jumped into action letting out a ferocious roar.

  
Stiles for a moment contemplated whether Lydia would skin him alive if he stole a couple pies but shrugged it off and grabbed as many as he could – one with his mouth. He merrily glanced behind his shoulder, just to be sure. Liam handled everything perfectly – the approximately five foot five inches tall, seventeen year old guy manhandled the three thugs out with only minimal struggle. But he was one hell of a strong werewolf, so.

  
“Keep uf da goo' fork, Mer,” Stiles munched merrily, then headed toward the office.

 

*

 

Lydia fumed. Stomped her feet while pacing like a frustrated predator. Stiles was happy that he consumed all the pies in front of her door.

  
“Soo, I kicked out a wendigo?”

  
Lydia didn't appreciate the comment as Stiles thought she should have.

  
“Who probably waltzed his way into that bitch's dark fortress.”

  
“You hate wendigos,” Stiles pointed out unnecessarily. Lydia huffed. Her strawberry-blonde locks danced wildly around her unblemished ivory face.

  
“That's lost clientèle, Stiles,” Lydia shrieked, indignant.

  
“Well, practically not since they're not served under any circumstances.” At the death glare he hurried to add: “But semantics, right?”

  
“Yesterday, twelve vampires wanted to drink a Bloody Mary.”

  
“You mean...?”

  
“Yes, Stiles, a _Bloody_ Mary.”

  
“They didn't actually ask for a chick called Mary, right? You know, like served warm and fresh, right from the source and all that shit?”

  
“No, they brought one.” The girl rolled her eyes so hard, he was afraid that she sprained something. “Boyd helped them out snatching the girl in the process. They weren't exactly happy about it but they were painfully outnumbered for a fight. I saw them going into the Poisoned Lover. Then last week there was the fae-incident, I'm sure you remember.”

  
“That was an accident! You know how clumsy I can be...”

  
“Right. It had nothing to do with your hatred towards bigoted dark fae, who wants the complete annihilation of human beings. Yeah, I'm not buying that. Besides, you're only clumsy when you want adversaries to underestimate you.”

  
“Until Ally regularly comes here – you may know her, the princess of this fine kingdom _and our best friend_ – there's nothing to worry about. You may have lost a couple dark fae...”

  
“You broke a baron's nose, ruined his wife's dress and humiliated their daughter in front of Jackson Whittemore, first class douchebag _and_ member of the Court of King Gerard. They might never come back unless for retaliation. In that case I'll serve you on a silver platter.”

  
“Geez, thanks for your support. You're evil.”

  
“Jennifer Blake's evil. I'm only sixty-five percent evil. On a bad day.”

  
“Can't argue with that.” Stiles scratched the nape of his head. “So, what is this all about? I know you. Someone hurt your pride.”

  
Lydia stopped pacing and directly looked at him. Her mesmerizing green eyes were clouded with rage and the uncomfortable feeling of being less than totally perfect.

  
“A horde of unwashed, uneducated, uncultured cretin happened. After they drank five kegs of our speciality, the dark elderberry-beer they dared say that it was 'black horsepiss' and Blake's every alcoholic beverage is much stronger and better than ours! Outrageous! Blasphemy!”

  
“You know that they were just trying to cut the price in half at least, don't you?” Stiles deadpanned with raised eyebrows.

  
“Obviously,” Lydia retorted half indignant, half satisfied. “I had them beaten up by Liam.”

  
“Were they human?”

  
“All of them,” Lydia said, a dark, gleeful smirk playing on her plum lips. Stiles felt a momentary sympathy for the poor bastards. It disappeared quickly.

  
“But you still want to prove yourself. For the sake of your ego.”

  
Lydia refused to dignify that with an answer.

  
“Okay.” He let out a dramatic sigh. “Do not spare me, goddess of revenge.”

  
“My birdies...” Stiles groaned miserably. Lydia went on unruffled. “As I said, my birdies chirped about a sinfully delicious combination of apples and blueberries in a sizzling, spicy ale. I have no idea how it never occurred to me before but never mind. I want you to go inside the lion's den, search in every hole, under every piece of furniture, in every little cranny and get that damned recipe at every cost. They say Blake sequesters it like it's the secret of immortality. Which it just might be,” came as an unsettling afterthought.

  
Stiles then made a very bad decision – he _chuckled_.

  
And he ran from the storm-starting fury, which followed.

 

 

THE WARRANT

 

Stiles has never been half-assed about a mission. That's a fact proven by countless reprimands from parents and instructors both. When his entire brain was focused on something deemed relevant enough he became unstoppable. He shut out everything else, even basic bodily functions. It was like a trance. Once he spent forty-five hours in a row familiarizing himself with the sexual life of snails. He poured over ancient tomes, harassed his druid and warlock instructors and collected all kinds of snails from around the house in hopes of a little living action. His father still carried mental scars from that time.

  
Apparently that phase hasn't arrived yet. Not as an excuse but before Lydia exploded he really promised Scott to help at Deaton's place. Deaton – an ostensibly innocent enigma Stiles still associated with The Dark Side. All capitals. After all, he paraded around as a doctor but everyone with half a brain could figure out that he bargained with obscure magical artefacts and ingredients on the black market. For what reasons Stiles could only guess. Oh, and he envisioned hair-rising things, such as Deaton in white from head to toe, sacrificing criminals in front of bizarre golden altars and drinking their blood from skull-chalices. He wasn't an expert by all means but his vivid imagination made up for that. Deaton seemed to know a lot about every topic and that frustrated Stiles to no end. On top of all, he was one of those insufferable persons who were tight-lipped all the time – the man couldn't give the simplest one-sentenced directions without at least two riddles intertwined with moral teachings. Scott adored the guy. Even Stiles loved riddles normally but not when his life depended on them, or when he just wanted to know the closest latrine's location. The two sometimes meant the same.

  
He left the Haberdashery in a hurry. The roofs of Beacon Hills already bathed in orange-red lights, like they were on fire. In contrast closer to the ground all walls were shrouded in deep, cold, black shadows. The Sun's bleeding orb dominated the west side of the sky while at the same time the Moon's silvery-pale face climbed higher and higher, taking possession of the east side. Stiles had no desire to meet the Onyx Watch, King Gerard's nightly guard. Not a nice troop, the lot of them. Not that he couldn't cloak his presence but that had a price. He needed his whole power for next day's assignment. Jennifer Blake was one fine dark witch with years of practice in her advance. But most importantly he didn't want his dad worrying about him, so. Ignorance was bliss or whatever. His quick steps echoed on the cobblestones as quiet _pat-pat-pats_.

  
Deaton's house stood on the outskirts of the woods. He had multiple fenced clearings and wooden houses of all sizes and forms to accommodate the sick animals he treated. Stiles's best buddy, Scott was the last persistent worker present – he just checked a pigeon's wrapped wing. He wore the dopiest smile in the whole world. His eyes were shining as he cooed to the unbothered bird.

  
“You want to pet the giant bunnies?” Scott spoke with his back to his best friend.

  
“Damn your keen werewolf senses,” muttered Stiles jokingly. “How could I say no to giant bunnies?”

  
In the next hour they busied themselves with feeding all the little patients. They filled up their water tanks, examined the more serious injuries and petted the restless hairless kittens and three-headed puppies, and Stiles finally acquired Harold, the small turquoise turtle. Deaton hadn't allowed him to adopt the little thing while it's soft, sensitive skin was swollen and red. Poor Harold had a severe allergy to mushrooms. He unintentionally travelled through two oceans in a pirate ship's dingy belly. Deaton had bought him at discount price because his whole body was covered in a thick white layer of mildew. And you know, because of _pirates_. Stiles could relate. He hated mushrooms too. Besides, Harold was one of a kind. He changed colours according to what kind of magic he detected; a truly amazing feat even in a world of wonders. Stiles decided to provide him with the best turtle-life ever.

  
“Where's Kira, by the way?” Stiles asked. He tore away his awed gaze from the lake that housed fascinating luminous carps. “Did you know that these beauties' scales are used in elite circles for clothing purposes? Illegally. They can engulf almost every spell.”

  
“Yes, Stiles, strange as it may sound I kinda know what types of creatures I'm working with.”

  
“Uhm...”

  
“She's at her parents,” they grabbed their bags, “finishing up that blade you asked.”

  
“She's a goddess among us, mere commons.”

 

*

 

Thousands of argument-worthy matters remained unresolved among the inhabitants of Beacon Hills, but there were two things everyone had the same opinion about: Greenberg's fishes were never fresh and the Yukimura's were the most talented smiths in the kingdom. The kitsunes had an incomparable relationship with metals. Kira especially. She just lifted her hands and the air filled with static energy. She controlled lightning like a veteran rider their equally old horse. Her irises reminded Stiles of copper pendants and earrings his mother used to wear. A fire as inexorable and mind-blowing as the invisibly simmering, bubbling heart of the planet.

  
Stiles and Scott were convinced that she was the wildest, most destructive creature ever born. It was all luck that Kira's personality was all sunshine and rainbows most of the time. A flourishing heart of honest innocence and pure happiness others tended to dismiss. How foolish of them.

  
Currently she applied the finishing touches to Stiles's ultra-thin diamond blade. Her raven-black hair seemed to sparkle above the wicked looking white-blue energy threads dancing under her hands.

  
The forge was a big, almost entirely open area. It huddled close to the Yukimura's home. The boys chose a low-riding roof of the house to sit on. Stiles carefully deposited Harold in his breast-pocket, where he was safe and warm but he could stretch his neck to look out at the world. Beacon Hills unfolded itself below them. Midnight passed but the capital thrummed and pulsated with life. It looked like a constellation; hundreds of warm pearls glowed, creating something bigger than them. When Stiles closed his eyes he still could see the picture they painted. Like a beacon of hope. Of life. Of home.

 

*

 

They had fallen asleep. Stiles woke up groggily – never a morning person – to Scott's already abandoned indentation on a bed he didn't remember climbing onto.

  
“Morning,” came a cheery voice. Yeah, sunshine-and-love-to-all-Kira. Stiles would have done with more clouds today but as soon as he glimpsed the blade all thoughts of tiredness left him. He scrambled up, got tangled in his blanket and almost face-planted. He blamed it on the excitement.

  
“I just came in, so be careful. Still a little charged.”

  
“You haven't slept at all, have you,” Stiles asked, incredulous.

  
“No.” Kira smiled an irrationally bright smile nonetheless. “Once I start on something as delicate as this I cannot stop until it's done. It would ruin everything. Breakfast?”

  
Stiles tried to muffle his treacherous stomach's discontented grumbles. He was an eighteen year old teenage boy; when he wasn't hungry he was horny. Though even he wasn't that shameless to accept Kira's magnanimity when he didn't pay for the blade in the first place. Yet.

  
“And there are no knights in shining armour, jostling at your door; desperate to be in your good graces?” Stiles parried like a professional; his remark laced with a healthy dose of disbelief. “Unbelievable. I know, straight guys these days... What are they even made of? I feel insulted, my Lady. Such a gemstone among boring, grey rocks and they're behaving as ignorant simpletons!” In his enthusiastic performance he stumbled through his morning routine miraculously keeping his (and Harold's, but he had an advantage there) every limb intact.

  
When he finally emerged from the restroom the first thing he noticed were Kira's flush adorned cheeks; like pale roses on a hot summer day. And now she inspired poetry. Stiles needed to get going. He gave her a bone-crushing hug because those should be mandatory. Moreover, he was awesome at hugging. The kitsune's delightful laugh accompanied him to the wrought iron gates. Stiles turned around one last time to face the dragon-gargoyles that guarded the Yukimura domain and to his friend. He shouted back:

  
“I arrange that meeting with Lorraine, you just chill.” He adjusted his backpack. “And so going to bring you and Liam together,” he muttered.

  
He didn't have to walk a lot to reach the baker's street. The light morning breeze carried the most amazing scents; freshly baked breads and bagels, buttered rolls and crescents, crispy pretzels generously coated in salt and sweet scones with a sprinkle of lemon. It was more than enough to make Stiles's mouth water. Salivating through the late openers he found the perfect shop and ate his weight in pastries all the while entertaining the bear-like baker's numerous kids with hilarious faces. He rinsed the delicious breakfast with a pot of hot, black coffee. When they reached the best fruit stalls on the inner streets he bought a handful of crimson strawberries for Harold.

  
As he got closer to the main square where Lydia's Haberdashery and the Poisoned Lover stood the crowd grew thicker. Long gone were the relatively calm and empty outer districts with their horses and drawn carriages. Not just baskets full of vegetables and fruits, clean laundry, sacks of coffee, tea, flour, sugar, salt and boxes of even more expensive spices were carried by servants and maids. Not just careless kids were running around, playing the games that meant their whole world for the time being. Not just the workhouses and orphanages blurted out their woeful content; hundreds of pickpockets slipped through the colourful mess, looking for their steady income. But various creatures from higher social standing showed their faces too; the rich and noble fae represented themselves as well as the ancient-looking, shabby but in reality wealthy warlocks. There were many young adult supernatural creatures from the diligent, underpaid working class; their offspring closely attached to them.

  
“What's happening?” Stiles asked a thin man, curious. He was by far the tallest in Stiles's close vicinity.

  
“Finstock is going to read the latest regulations of King Gerard, aloud.

  
“So soon?” A woman asked frowning. “The last batch was only one moon ago.”

  
Stiles scratched his nose. He had continued to polish a previously lifted yellow apple on his tunic and let himself be drifted toward their destination by the ever-growing sea of people. When the incessant waves started to calm down a little he elbowed and kicked his way closer to the podium, where Finstock stood in the Royal Family's silver and black uniform. Stiles winced in good-natured sympathy at the sight of the dishevelled appearance of the famous spokesperson. Early mornings, indeed. The man cleared his throat once, twice, three times, accompanied by a horrible scratching-like sound.

  
“These are the orders of King Gerard, the first. Just lemme',” Finstock loosened his scarf with jerky movements before ridding himself from the crazy – at least one foot long – emerald hat they no doubt forced him to put on. “Sonofa... Khm. Khm, khm, kkhhmm. I just... short it down a bit if you don't mind? Oookay. Two nights ago Kate Argent, first heir to the throne was brutally murdered by a feral werewolf, Peter Hale.” The name affected the gathered like thunder. Excited murmurs sounded from basically everywhere. There was no one who hasn't known the name of the formidable Talia Hale. She was the Alpha of the greatest werewolf pack in the Kingdom. Stiles didn't know much about Peter but he in fact worshipped his sister and meticulously kept an eye on her work. She wasn't just a naturally born leader. She worked hard for bringing relative equality to their world; for a peaceful coexistence. She frequently opposed the Argent's militaristic ways and discriminative regulations. Stiles kissed her footprints out of respect, for Heaven's sake! Where was she anyway? “Wanted for fifty thousand gold. There's no dead or alive... the Family prefers him dead. Anyone who's helping him in any way for any time frame shall die too. You know the rest. State of siege, reinforced Onyx watch, doubled Army patrols with permission to search houses and arrest anyone they seem to fit. That's all the party I got for you today. Go to your businesses, boys and girls!”

  
“What happened to the Hales? Where's Talia? What happened? Why did he kill Princess Kate?” Stiles wasn't the only one shouting his questions to the air, neither the only one who went home without answers.

 

 

WOLF IN THE PANTRY

 

“Well, what do you think?” Stiles pestered his best friend for what felt like a thousandth time. There was quite the ruckus that night in the Happy Haberdashery's common area. Actually Stiles thought he heard at least three hundred guests verbally fighting (for now); each of them eager to share their beliefs about this case, the louder the better. It was all good; they only gave reason to worry when fists, legs and thrown furniture joined the debate. That was their cue to get on board. Stiles trusted Liam's and Kira's abilities; they were able to fend off any situation or person went awry – at least as long as they joined them.

  
They sat in the boss's office; well, Lydia sat in her armchair. Stiles paced instead with a fearful rabbit's vigour. He absent-mindedly patted Harold in his pocket. His mind worked a hundred miles a minute. Lydia looked like she wanted to tear his hair out one by one. The saviour of Stiles's bird-nest proved to be a tall, slim figure just stepping into the room. She didn't have to pull off her black cloak's hood; they instantly recognized her.

  
“Allison, my heart's uneven queen!” Stiles shouted and engulfed the girl in a brotherly hug.

  
“Uneven?” Allison repeated. No one missed the minuscule tremor in her voice.

  
“You know, all those soft curls and waves” Stiles gestured wildly.

  
“Not to mention the hills and humps and dimples,” Scott joined them. He took Allison's hand and gently kissed it.

  
“We understand.” Ldyia's voice dripped from heavy sarcasm.

  
A somewhat awkward silence descended on them.

  
“What happened?” Scott's words were soft, kind; easy. He really knew how to treat women; to the immense relief of one Stiles Stilinski. Otherwise known as insensitive bastard. It didn't matter how much he loved these two ladies. Talia and the rest of the Hale family were in his mind, superseding everything else for an indeterminable amount of time. He felt the urge itching at the back of his head to just _attack_ Allison with his rude interrogation techniques.

  
“Remember, I told you how sudden was the change in Aunt... her behaviour?” Allison sniffed once or twice, but didn't let her tears fall. Scott nodded, encouraging. Stiles just shared a glance with Lydia. They were so preoccupied in their own world; they didn't realize something was up? Lydia's mouth turned down. Allison smoothed out the wrinkles on her forehead with a slightly shaky smile. “I... She's always been carefree, sometimes even on the verge of complete irresponsibility. She had this habit; she taunted the touchiest, she manipulated the malleable, she... was malicious but I never before... But how she acted three days ago? It was different. More intense. She was positively giddy. Excited, ecstatic. She even mentioned a fruitful hunt,” Allison hiccuped. Stiles couldn't control himself any longer:

  
“She committed something against the Hales, right?”

  
Lydia gasped while Scott virtually murdered his best friend with his crimson Alpha gaze. Allison herself seemed rather thankful for his merciless honesty.

  
“Before she was murdered I listened in to her conversation with one of our man. Hale, wolfsbane and fire,” the light fae princess whispered. “It was already done.”

  
“She trapped them. She trapped them in and burned down a whole family.” Lydia's voice was hoarse, as if she has been screaming for hours. She grabbed Stiles's hand without a word. Stiles slumped against her desk and numbly started rubbing soothing circles into her soft skin.

  
“Do you have any idea, how many survived?”

  
“As far as I know there's only Peter.”

  
“Only Peter is wanted by the king officially at least,” Lydia clarified quietly.

  
“There were minimum six kids in there,” Stiles added. “Not all of them werewolves.” He impatiently tapped on his thigh. “I hate to ask but did you tell this to the king?”

  
Every pair of eyes zeroed in on Allison. The princess straightened her shoulders.

  
“That's the worst part. I believe he was the one behind it.”

  
In that exact second Kira burst through the door.

  
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but Lydia; Jennifer Blake is here. She wants to talk to you.”

 

*

 

The common area resembled a war-zone. Literally. It looked like the guests formed miniature fractions and some of them even barricaded their mostly improvised group of allies with tables, benches and chairs. The piles of used plates, jars, mugs and glasses were located strategically too. Stiles had a strong suspicion that they were meant to provide ammunition for the time the fight inevitably heats up. Lydia came to a halt. It was hard to figure out if she wanted to cry, give up her whole career among barks of hysterical laughter, or scream until every single dumbass left her place.

  
“You've got to be kidding,” Stiles snorted. Scott could only blink. Kira grimaced, an apologetic expression on her face, like she personally felt responsible for the stupidity wreaking havoc in the inn. From Liam's determined-soldier-face Stiles only missed the war paints Indians preferred.

  
“To be honest, I first thought that maybe you converted this... fine establishment... to a nursery.”

  
“Really? It looks like a loony bin from where I stand.” At first he didn't notice Jennifer. The witch wore her trademark sugary sweet smile and a tantalizingly low-key outfit. Her long legs still captured the attention of most males everywhere, regardless of species. Even Stiles had to admit; Jennifer was a stunning vision. Now they just needed to find out her agenda – besides competing with Lydia a tad bit... obsessively. Yeah, that woman's passion was glaringly obvious. Partly while the constantly cool and collected Lydia hated her so much.

  
“Just spit it out!” Scott sighed wearily. Stiles noticed a movement from the corner of his eye but he wasn't sure who the culprit was.

  
“Oh, Scott. Ladies don't spit.”

  
“You're everything, but a lady,” Lydia mocked.

  
“Honey. How old are you? Nineteen? Believe me, I could show you things about being a 'lady' you wouldn't even dare dream of.”

  
“Arrrgggh! Enough chick-cheeping!” a lumberjack-looking, bear-sized man hollered with such volume, the glasses startled to rattle on the shelves. His outburst was followed by zealously congruent shouts coming from men and women in different stages of intoxication.

  
“Quite so!”

  
“Finally!”

  
“Hooray! Hooray!”

  
“Preach!”

  
“We have much more important things to discuss.” A blonde, cautious dandy peeked out from the biggest table's safety. “That savage beast killed our beloved princess!”

  
“You're not even from around here, what's it to you?” a monstrous gnome barked back at the same time as a lonely, smelly werewolf snarled:

  
“The bitch deserved it! I would've done the same!”

  
A group of elegant dark fae, who up until now successfully pretended nonchalance behind their armchair-stronghold furiously hissed at that. While they desperately searched for weaponry on their bodies the dandy took one timid step forward:

  
“Excuse me, sirs but...”

  
“Shut your arse-licking trap!”

  
“Repeat that, nitwit!” An old man turned up behind the scared blonde; a long staff in his wrinkled hand. “Nobody talks that way with my grandson. He travelled around the world! He speaks languages! I bet you can't even read!” The old man spat then swung his staff in a wide range and pointed it at the gnome.

  
A lot of things happened at the same time.

  
“Get down!” Stiles cried and pulled Lydia with himself. He couldn't get a glimpse of their friends but saw a lot of fighting, dust, colourful smoke clouds and legs. Oh, and unconscious bodies lying on the ground. The old charlatan got knocked out by a drunkenly smirking warlock – who pronto got a chair to his head, courtesy of a demon-like figure – but his blinding white spell broke loose. The gnome jumped out of its way barely in time. Thanks to him the fae, who just readied themselves for a vast joint ritual got the white ball into their faces. Their screams added to the cacophony of shouted spells, choked commands, clipped swears, loud stomping, battle cries and painful yowls. Some young boys tried to escape but that wasn't an easy task. Three smuggler groups got into a huge tussle with the resident bandits completely blocking the way to the exit. The dandy got attacked by witches and surprisingly took them all down quite easily, but he was sweating and screeching like a thirteen year old girl all along. The morose goblins, who occupied four rooms at the second floor were slaloming at leg level and collected everything valuable from the fallen.

  
“Do something!” Lydia yelled.

  
“What?!”

  
“Freeze them, kill them, just do _something_!” Lydia emphasised the word close to hysteria. Stiles didn't blame her but neither did he listen. Not really. Because suddenly Jennifer's face became visible at arm's length. The witch madly shook her head at her rival's suggestion. When their eyes met Stiles already knew what to do. He gathered his strength, pressed the Harold-pocket closer to his chest, detected all the familiar magical signatures and imagined them in Lydia's office. In the next moment they all materialized there.

  
“YOU ARE FUCKING CRAZY!” Stiles cracked up scaring the hell out of the already way too traumatized Meredith. Everyone was in the middle of shakily getting themselves together, checking for injuries or missing limbs. All in all the three of them got away in the best condition. Lydia helped a bleeding Liam supporting Meredith to a divan then sat down in her chair. Her wide eyes inspected everyone with something akin to motherly love. Jennifer seated herself, dusting off her amazingly intact clothes. Her face mirrored true surprise but otherwise she was fine. Stiles lost himself a little in the middle of his incredulous rant. “Why the hell did you do that?” he turned to Jennifer at the end.

  
“How could I know about this, tell me please? I honestly thought that it will end in a good, old-fashioned pub-fight with a couple broken noses at the most!”

  
“Oh my, but you have worse visitors! Vampires, wendigos, potineers with bizarre requests... You of all people should be capable of sizing up the potential risks for a pub-fight!”

  
“Yes, but my clients are usually calm, polite and well-mannered or they don't talk at all. They want to lay low. Wise move.” Jennifer rolled her eyes.

  
That got Stiles thinking for a moment.

  
“True,” he admitted sulkily. “And now, spill. Why the big show of mutual hatred?”

  
“I suppose this office is safe?”

  
“I made it sure,” Stiles answered with confidence. “Soundproof, warded against all kinds of creatures and devices. Couldn't be any safer.”

  
“Gerard Argent.”

  
Allison's head snapped toward the dark witch. Jennifer flashed her an unsettling, all-teeth smile.

  
“I need your help to eliminate Gerard, but if _Princess_ Allison stands in our way, I kill her.” The threat rolled off her tongue easily, like killing a noble heir wasn't a big deal for her. It probably wasn't.

  
Scott growled threateningly but Stiles raised his hand to stop him.

  
“Unnecessary. And who do you want in his stead?” Stiles narrowed his eyes.

  
“I don't have a problem with the new generations and I could be careless about that kind of power. I'm only after Gerard.”

  
“Why?” Lydia joined the questioning.

  
Jennifer eyed them for a long minute. “I know he got the Hales killed. They were the reason I came back here after long years of serving another pack. But my Alpha betrayed me and I wanted a good place for my daughter. A quieter, more peaceful lifestyle. I'm not going to let that _damned_ _Gerard_ _Argent_ , a widely known werewolf-hater ruin this unique kingdom. And he will, I can guarantee that. He only favours his own kind; the dark fae.”

  
“Why us?” Liam asked, distrustful.

  
“We're the only ones stupid enough to help her. If it makes you sleep better at nights, call it bravery,” Stiles waved him off lazily. “We know each other a bit and competing notwithstanding we have enough trust between us. Right?”

  
“You know, this is why I like you the most, Stiles.” Jennifer let out a satisfied purr. “However, I hope I don't have to remind you; no one can know about our little pact, or we're doomed. Hence the hatred-show with witnesses. We need to assure that no one gets suspicious.”

  
Stiles nodded his agreement.

  
“This is wonderful. Truly. I promise I'm going to burst with happiness soon now, that we have to work together but you still destroyed my pub! My guests are probably dead or robbed! You owe me a lot, Blake!

  
The tension became so thick it was a wonder neither of them choked to death by it. Lydia's face was no less thunderous then at the previous day. Jennifer easily picked up the proverbial gloves. Before a bloody cat-fight could have break out Kira saved the day:

  
“I have an idea! After Allison's grandpa is taken care of we will hold a festival!”

  
While the witches contemplated the concept, Kira came up with further plans to persuade them:

  
“You can call it a final battle. Only you two will cater so the whole cohort of creatures who'll arrive in the capital for the coronation ceremony will eat and drink your stuff. We figure out other programmes for kids and adults too when the time comes.

  
“You mean if we win.” Liam commented, full of doubts. His voice was laced with pessimism. Even Stiles raised his eyebrows.

  
Thankfully Meredith chose that moment to come back to them with a quiet declaration:

  
“We win. I know.”

  
Her predictions tended to come true.

  
It was useless to further force their brains to come up with ideas about Gerard or anything else. They were tired and undoubtedly deserved a little time off.

  
Scott willingly offered to peek into the common area. The room looked like a hurricane survivor. It was going to take up two or three days minimum, but Stiles was relieved – nothing important got hurt to the point of being incorrigible. Scott, Liam and Kira checked the fainted idiots but no one died; they were protected by Stiles's and possibly Jennifer's wards and spells.

  
The dark witch's amusement did nothing to improve Lydia's mood, so the woman slipped out, verified the surroundings' safety and went home. This was the first time that the Poisoned Lover's gloomy frontage looked better than Lydia's Happy Haberdashery's with its broken windows, torn carpets and exploded main door. Even the pavement was littered with wooden and glass shards.

  
Stiles just wanted to sleep for at least twenty hours, preferably undisturbed. But before that; he wanted to destroy a significant amount of heavenly ginger cookies from the storage room.

 

*

 

By the time everyone left for home Stiles had a little of the job done. Only basics; he magically collected the debris from everywhere to a corner for later use and fixed the outer layer of the gem-figurines. He added new, stronger and smarter protection wards and hexes to the whole system. It was necessary against thieves, robbers and ruffians. Not to mention that he offered to sleep there, guarding Lydia's baby-project from the inside. Not that he was easily scared, but he's father was the Army's main general. They knew how important safety was.

  
Finally he could sneak into the enormous storage room without interruptions. Or so he thought.

  
He was halfway to the end of the last portion of Lydia's mum's beatific ginger cookies. Literally. He was elbow deep in the jar, face full with the spicy-sugary sweetness when he heard a soft laugh. He only had a little time after he turned, but that was enough.

  
The last thing he saw before total blackness was devastatingly handsome Peter Hale's pleased little smile.

 

 

_ To be continued... _

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES: * temperature in °F, but in this context that'd certainly look awkward


End file.
